Truce
by vaudevillain king
Summary: Thoughts run in a pattern, twisting like old scars. The Joy, after the torture scene. One shot.


The whole torture scene in MGS3 inspired me, in seeing the characters' reactions to what happened... Hence, this was born.

**Disclaimer- **_Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater_ and all characters therein aren't mine. I just like screwing with them. And I don't own Dresden Dolls songs.

Also. **SPOILER WARNING** for those who don't know Sorrow's story and care about reading vague hints at it, and for those who aren't bright enough to figure out that Ocelot is the son of The Boss and The Sorrow.

Onward!

* * *

_  
I can say without shame that you've lost  
Do you know what you've lost?  
_-The Dresden Dolls, "Truce" 

Metallic hallways made noises resound like they really weren't meant to, she noticed.  
She almost smiled to herself at that. It was something she might have heard from…  
A sick tightening in her stomach, below the tracing scar. Best not to think of that now… not of him, now…  
Her footsteps echoed and she ignored it, finding behind them the sounds of soldiers treading their patrol routes, rats scurrying in the corners, and somewhere, not so very distant but surely not too close…  
That dull whirring the boy must find pleasant, even consoling- a gun spinning in the air.  
The Boss frowned further. He should know better than to do what he'd done.  
_Blood dripping down Jack's face, run Jack, run…_  
He should _know_ better…  
She supposed Volgin was to blame for much of it, though. One couldn't say he was a good influence without lacing the words with sarcasm, unless the desired effect was to be shot between the eyes.  
And yet she was fooling herself. Cold air brushed her cheek, from nowhere, the hand of a dead man, reminding her.  
But somehow she doubted even she could have made a difference. He was the man he was, stolen and raised to be a monster, a puppy kicked and starved enough to grow into a snarling, biting mongrel who'd accept no feeding hand.  
"Watching this has made me realize something…"  
_Sneering, cold blue eyes and I wonder what he'd realize if I taught him, like a mother should_  
"It's really not that bad."  
_Something says that nothing would help it… But he has his father's eyes._  
"It's the ultimate form of expression."  
_Poor thing. Such a dirty heart. Such an example we'd set for him, abandonment. _  
She wondered if a slap across the face counted as child abuse.  
He'd left and then, gunshot. Jack screamed, and she watched. She'd seen worse. So much worse.  
_And then this one, he's half-blind, hanging, blood seeping through, skin and pain and hurting._  
And oddly enough, he still loved her. She could see it.  
She really had nothing left to lose, did she?  
"Run."  
No one left to lose.  
The Boss—  
_No more Joy_  
--found she'd stopped at the end of the hall, somewhere, Groznyj Grad. The knife against her breast seemed to burn, oddly. Like it remembered being held so close to hard, familiar blue eyes. Maybe like the gun buried in the drawer in her room burned, wept over as it was and two years untouched, remembering a cracked pair of glasses and how her bed had a cold, empty half even though it was big enough just for her.  
She knew that Jack would make it out. Jack would escape, and rebuild. Repair. And then he'd come back.  
Something said it deep inside, like the snake-shaped cesarean scar that reminded her of the blue-eyed boy and his juggling act, arrogant gunplay. Like long gone, eternally sleepless nights of holding a weeping lover who couldn't hold her now with anything but dead arms.  
It said she'd see Jack one more time.  
Only one.  
Run, Jack. Run back to meet me.  
She was grateful she couldn't hear the dead. Surely they'd be screaming, what she'd lost...  
Two sons. Two.  
Then her one lover, and four soldiers. Comrades, ever-faithful. Friends.  
_Casualties of war._  
She felt cold, and wondered why even though she knew; those old hands at were work again, unseen smile just as melancholy as ever.  
Somewhere in her stomach, that old feeling twitched and twisted, eating away like a parasite.  
Something like sorrow.

* * *

Hope it's not too incomprehensible. I kind of wrote it at one in the morning... ; 

Read and review, please!  
-Ashley


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